


and teeth to the love and the curses

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blatant Fanservice, Broken Glass: Do Not Eat, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Poor Life Choices, The Year That Never Was (Doctor Who), probably kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 12:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20173945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: ‘It’s very simple. You take a piece of my glass, and put it in here,’ he punctuated this with a sharp tug on the Doctor’s lower teeth, ‘and chew it, if you want. Then you swallow. I’m sure you’ll manage, being so clever.’





	and teeth to the love and the curses

**Author's Note:**

> Because, er, Ten looks really _pretty_ when he's [chewing on it](https://66.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lyb2gqS9de1r0yrfno1_500.gif). No really, that's it.

The sound rattled about his ears, little pieces of glass plinking off him and tumbling to the floor. The glass had missed him by a few inches’ margin, and the Doctor blinked up at the Master with a question he wasn’t allowed to voice.

The Master was still scowling, chewing over a decision he was clearly yet to make. His fingers, curled over his elbows, twitched. Impatient.

Already prostrate, the Master pressed a hand to the back of the Doctor's neck and pushed him lower with exacting strength. Low enough to taste: the alcohol stung his nose, all rich wood and smoke, which the Doctor thought paired very poorly with the sharpness.

He didn’t need to see him to know the precise moment the Master had made up his mind. Just the weight of his palm, now an impervious wall of intent, and the sharp exhale of a man who sounded eager to be rid of it. ‘Eat it.’

The Doctor had to question whether they were still using English, because he’d obviously misheard. Except a toe was very pointedly nudging a chunk of still-wet glass towards his face, and, well. It seemed to be rather the Master’s thing, now. Bored of conquering and demoralising, it was increasingly creative absurdity that seemed to do the trick.

The trick, obviously, was provoking a reaction from the Doctor. And he had no doubt his reaction was marvellous, because his face had reflexively swung itself into jaw-dropped astonishment.

The hand around the back of his neck shoved, and almost sent his left eye careening into a large chunk of crystalware. The Master sounded distinctly grouchy. ‘You know how much I hate repeating myself.’

‘I—I don’t understand,’ the Doctor swallowed, and realised how dry his throat sounded.

‘Of course you don’t,’ the Master agreed, sourly, and without preamble shoved a thumb in between his lips. ‘It’s very simple. You take a piece of my glass, and put it in _here_,’ he punctuated this with a sharp tug on the Doctor’s lower teeth, ‘and chew it, if you want. Then you swallow. I’m sure you’ll manage, being so clever.’

There was something about the way he said it that sounded very much like an indictment. He wiped his hand on the Doctor’s cheek, and released him. The Master took a step back, glass crunching beneath his feet with a sound that ought to have been satisfying – if it wasn’t for the subtle implication that he’d be next.

The Doctor considered it a moment. It was real glass, that much was certain. It was probably the latest in a very long line of attempts to get him to stop talking without being necessarily silent. It wasn’t his idea of a fun Tuesday afternoon. He shifted, on hands and knees, and almost fell off them again when he realised he’d just driven a tiny splinter of glass through his thumb.

Rattled, he shook his head. ‘I can’t do this.’

The Master gave him one of those smiles that could be very good, or very bad.

‘Why not?’ Deep, roughened voice. _Very bad_ it was, then.

It was such an inane question, the Doctor had to assume it was rhetorical. But silence, it seemed, was also the wrong answer. That was a particular injustice of the Master’s whims; saying nothing was always the right choice, right up until it wasn’t.

‘Tell me, Doctor.’

Ah. It was like that, then. The Doctor hesitated, his gaze snagging on those sharp edges, the glitter of shards across the floor. ‘Because it’ll hurt me.’

The Master licked his lips, crouched, and selected a larger piece of what had – sixty-seven seconds ago – been his tumbler. ‘Good.’ He brought it to the Doctor’s mouth, and his body might have twisted itself away, his fists squeezing tight, but his lips were slack and unresisting. The Master placed the curve of it into the Doctor’s waiting mouth, gently closed his jaw, and sealed it shut with a kiss.

The reflexive gasp almost made the Doctor inhale the piece of glass whole, and cruelly, he realised it had made him miss what it felt like.

The Master was waiting. There really was no going back now; he was under no doubt that the Master could think of something far worse should he fail to entertain. Gingerly, reluctantly, the Doctor closed his eyes and focussed on moving his jaw. Chew. It was simple. It was.

The first skull-rattling _crunch_ was enough to make him jump. His tongue was jammed in the back of his throat, and he imagined he tasted blood. It was a visceral repulsion from his body that only made it harder not to think about it – which, he rapidly realised, was the key. The second bite was even worse. The third, well, three times lucky was too much to ask, wasn’t it?

At some disturbingly imprecise point in time it became apparent to him that he wasn’t going to regenerate and come back with a chandelier embedded in his palate. Nor was it going to hurt him. It was manageable, if a bit gritty, and prone to an awful squeal as it ground against his teeth. His brain, now crawling back out from the place it seemed to frequently escape to, reminded him that glass and sand were both silica, and saliva was excellent at reducing the sort of friction edges needed in order to cut.

Still didn’t dare to sweep his tongue around, though.

It took longer than the Doctor was particularly comfortable with to grind it down. Small pieces, large grit, fine sand that stuck to his gums and the roof of his mouth. The Master, no doubt sensing the way the sound had changed pitch, gave him an encouraging smile. He placed a hand alongside the Doctor’s throat, both threat and promise, thumb rubbing soothing strokes down his gullet.

It should have been obvious, those remaining fingers pinching his nose shut. Like an animal swallowing a bitter pill. And the Doctor did, with a final leap of his hearts, and – impossibly – found himself unharmed.

He grinned, a little shamelessly. Maybe exhilarated. It wasn’t often you navigated the Master’s ever-volatile moods with just a few hairs raised and some glass stuck between your teeth.

The Master looked him in the eye. A satisfied smile twinkled about his face, and the Doctor suppressed a pang of grief at how very familiar it looked. ‘Good boy,’ the Master said, and promptly returned to his work.


End file.
